Archive for February, 2011

This Fayre

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 24, 2011 by dc

Most of this town is a graveyard,
Most of these gardeners are bleak,
Geography and history holding hands
Like lost prisoners seeking sunlight.

Electrified in strange fields,
At one with the pylons and grief,
These gardeners feast on fresh game,
Picking shrapnel and bones from their teeth.

This fayre could soon be a farce,
There are clipboard conversations
Over daffodils and marrows,
Dead dogs in the bushes,
Weird secrets alive with the sparrows.

These gardeners are spent with smiling,
There are ill thoughts in the wind,
Their children are in bed early
And their wives are mannequins,

The red sky is a warning,
Panicked chatter sits in sync
With the wild horses in the stables
As this town sits on the brink,

The park will soon be a shrine
For a prize too quickly departed
And its bench a resting place
For the freshly broken hearted.

Lest We Forget

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2011 by dc

And they will see the light again
Like the fossilised sap of ancient trees,
The flies in a soldiers basement
Or the sea life skimming fault lines
Down deep where the oceans turn black.

The shadows lied,
The shadows hide
The truth.

Head High

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2011 by dc

Head high to the stars
And the rooftops will hold you
Closer than never before,

Let the black cloud your eyes,
Knock on the door,
Jump in and before
Someone speaks

Shout your name,
Call for rain
And proclaim
You have dreams

That could
Cover the sky.

False Prophet

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 5, 2011 by dc

Here’s another
Telling us he hears voices,
A glass bottomed landscape,
A slow heart attack.

Or maybe just wind.

He sits up in bed,
Farting a tune,
An embarrassing march,
Then an awkward descent.

From the dream laden parapets
To the cold tiled wards,

He’s the puffed up ambition
Of a hall filled with lords,

A bored sloth deflating,
A motherless cord,

It’s a chore
Just to hear him

Pretend that he’s cured.